Page 83 of Filthy Secret
He clears his throat, his eyes finding mine. “How do you make something like that right?” he asks, then in the next breath, he continues speaking. “You don’t. You fucking don’t. You spend the rest of your life living that guilt, trying to make it right, knowing you can’t ever do that.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” I demand. “I got my kid. I’m going to be here for him.”
Nash dips his chin in a single nod. His gaze stays focused on mine as he speaks. “But at what cost? That kid deserves a family, especially when his parents are fucking in love with one another.”
I could deny his statement. But I don’t want to be a liar. There’s no sense in it, at least not to Nash. If there is anyone, aside from King, who I could tell the whole fucking truth to, it is Nash.
“Fuck this shit,” he announces. “Let’s party. I’ve had my fill of emotional shit and paperwork. Let’s get fucked up. We can worry about bitches and fires tomorrow.”
I like the sound of that. I could use another night to drown myself completely. Not like I haven’t been doing that enough lately. Because I have. Booze mostly, a few clubwhores, and a lot of self-deprivation.
A lot.
“You got this shit with the building under control?” I ask.
“Just need your John Hancock notarized on a few documents, then we’re good to go. We’ll make it bigger, better, classier than it was. Everything will work out in the end,” he murmurs as he climbs onto his bike.
His words hit me, just the last sentence. Will it all work out in the end? That’s pretty fucking confident. I’m sure his club will. That’s an easy fix. But my shit? My woman, my kid? I’m not so fucking sure they’re easy fixes.
Not so sure they will work out in the end.
And what’s the end, anyway? A decade from now, three decades from now?
Fuck.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
RYAN
The bakery is quiet this early in the morning. Grover is with Adam, and I can’t sleep at that clubhouse. I can’t have anything to do with it. I also don’t have enough money to rent a hotel room, so I have my bag in the office here, and I’m going to work from before open to past close in an attempt to try to keep from running straight to that man and begging him to love me.
That’s what I want to do. It’s why I couldn’t be at that house when he came over. I couldn’t have a talk with him about child support payments. I could not deal. And I still can’t. I honestly don’t know if I ever will.
I left handwritten instructions on the counter and some premade meals in the fridge, then I left without ever seeing him. Pinching my eyes closed, I let out a heavy sigh as I hold my hands under the water, cleaning the piping bag of the frosting from earlier today.
I’m not sure how long it takes me to clean the kitchen, but I scrub it from top to bottom before I feel the heaviness of exhaustion wash over me. Taking myself to the little office in the back, I curl up on the love seat, lay my head against the armrest, and let out a long exhale just as my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Sucking in a breath, I reach for my phone and look at the screen. It’s Grover. And he’s attached an image. As the picture downloads, my heaviness lightens at the sight of my son fast asleep in his bed. His chubby cheeks and pursed lips, along with his long dark lashes.
I love him.
It’s a solid reminder that everything I’ve done over the past six years has only been for him. The contract I signed for Golden Joker was to protect Adam. It was stupid, but I felt like it was a last resort. I was embarrassed as hell about it then, and I hate myself for it now. But more than anything, I hate the way I kept it all from Grover.
Now I’m alone.
More alone than I was six years ago.
He’s perfect.
The three little dots appear, and then a message comes through.
GROVER: JUST LIKE HIS MOTHER.
Why does he have to be so sweet when I want to hate him?
I hate that.